


Late in the Evening

by olippe



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, Drama, Drama & Romance, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Music, Musicians, Romance, So don't worry, but not that sad, this is a bit sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: It was after the concert.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Stranger's Face

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 39th anniversary to Concert in Central Park! As Artie Garfunkel said then, "What a night!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serendepitous rendezvous after the concert.

In the depth of the night, there’s a quiet recess temporarily occupied by a cloud of smoke and a wakeful man. He’d kissed his lover and traded his shiny shoes for a pair of old trainers, then off to prowl the night.

The sky was drifting towards twilight. It was the hour of silence. The trees weren’t very sympathetic; they’re the only thing in this stillness that refused to be muted by the presence of longing. Rustling. Rustling. Rustling, in their love affair with the winds. The man couldn’t hate the trees and the winds. This could probably be the only time of day where they could announce their intimacy.

They were silenced, hours before. So it’s only fair, he thought. It was so loud then, no one would hear the trees if they’d caught on fire and screamed for their lives. No, the dusk belonged to men, and he was the half of a pair that caused the ruckus. But he couldn’t share this punishment of silence with the other responsible half, could he? No; that’s the real punishment.

“Paul.”

If either of them was shocked, neither showed it. “Artie,” was the simple reply. They shared the park bench and both were quiet for a while. Paul took a drag and exhaled slowly, his eyebrows married into a knot. “Did we arrange a meeting or something?”

“No.” There was a hint of chuckle in that answer.

“Did you know I’d be here?”

“No.” Again.

Eventually, Paul relented and smirked. “Then why _are_ you here?”

Art patted his pockets for a while before finding his lighter, then shifted his focus to answering Paul. “Because I want to be here.”

Paul watched the struggle in silence, quietly observing the movements and noting the key of Art’s soft curse. He’d done that a lot, over the course of years. Watching Artie had always been a delicious pastime activity. He moved in such a way, Artie. Like he’s treading a fragile thread on shoes made of knife. He shouldn’t be doing that in the first place.

He’d stopped doing that. He hadn’t been staring at Art silently like this in a very long time—or what felt like a very long time. In the miserable month of rehearsals after rehearsals, between the yelling and the silent anger, Paul rediscovered that habit again. It’s like waking up from a coma, or getting a new pair of eyes after going blind. He noticed the colour of Art’s eyes again, the shade of his hair and the angle in which each strand curled; he remembered that voice and what made him fall in love with it, and how it grew in acceleration; he re-acquainted the man who carried it all. Art moved his hands like that. He scratched the edge of his face like that. His forehead made ripples like that.

“For God’s sake, Artie.” Paul shook his head and scooted closer. He tilted his head upwards and Art, almost habitually, bent downwards. Paul’s eyes flashed sharply, and Art went still.

A silent _don’t._

Paul lowered his eyes to focus, and he rubbed the end of his cigarette against Art’s, lighting the latter’s. He retreated after the first puff of smoke wafted through his face, and Art had to throw his glance away to hide away the hurt and disappointment.

The world was on fire and he was cold.

“Do you remember,” Paul said, and Art knew exactly what he would say, “the first time we smoked together?”

He knew it was coming. Still, he smiled. “Which? Cigarette or joint?”

Paul laughed. His laughter was always so giggly, Paul. Paul laughed before he began a funny story, and during, and after, and Art would laugh more at Paul than at Paul’s story. He missed that. He missed Paul.

“Paul…”

“Did you miss it?” Art pursed his lips and allowed Paul to intercept him. Art always did, and Paul always did. “Did you miss singing together?”

Art quickly put the cigarette back to his mouth. He didn’t want to just say it. He couldn’t just say yes. He wouldn’t just toss around that answer. Why did Paul even ask, anyway?

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, as if answering Art’s thought. “I just have to ask.”

“Everyday.” Art recognised the cracking of his voice, and he masked the tears with a cough. Then another. Then another. Then another, until it didn’t feel implausible for his face to be filled with salty water. He bent his body until his face was as close to his lap as possible, as if his bony knees could hide him from the truth, from Paul’s gaze.

As if he’d ever wanted to hide from that gaze.

Paul didn’t touch him, like he used to when Art cried. Art could hear him blowing into the wind, almost as a whistle. The sound of his breathing was so soft, so strange; filled with thoughts and words that were almost tangible. Art braved his eyes to take a peek and found Paul staring at the distance, his jaws clenched. Always so stubborn with his emotion. Always so guarded. _I built walls._ Should he keep Art on the other side, too?

Art turned to watch the grass again, the browned leaves, the damp earth, the muddy shoes, and the droplet of tear that’s hanging at the edge of his nose.

“I miss you.”

He just said that. He said that as if it didn’t mean anything to Art. Then Paul took another drag. And the words disappeared like the grey cloud, but the meaning, like the smell, lingered.

Art wiped his face with the cuff of his coat. He sniffled and smoked to calm himself down. Paul probably didn’t mean it like that—not like he wished it did. He didn’t miss Art the way Art missed him.

He thought of that day again, like he’d been doing for the last ten years. It was raining. Paul was getting married.


	2. A True Love of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bachelor party.

Art had been holding it together.

In fact, he’d been perfect. He’d been the perfect best man, so far. Since best man pretty much did nothing of importance, it’s easy to be perfect. Art threw Paul a pretty decent bachelor party. Eddie was there, so nothing that would be too awkward to be done in front of one’s brother. Finest scotch. Cigars, even. Paul coughed and declared he didn’t like it, but he kept on smoking until the amber nearly scorched his fingers.

The world was on fire and he was cold.

They stayed in Paul’s apartment for the night—they being Art and Eddie. The apartment was orange and empty, safe for the giant hobby-horse in the middle of it all. Paul’s a bit mental, that’s definite. But it was pretty handy for bachelor party entertainment.

Paul examined Eddie, who’s still tied-up on the horse, and grinned. He wasn’t going to be nice and set his own brother free; that’s not Paul. In his state of intoxication, Artie giggled in high pitch and made a rare agreement to be nasty. Eddie wouldn’t appreciate it. But it’s fun to be juvenile, considering the end of youth his juvenile friend’s about to embark.

But Paul slapped the butt of the horse and said, “I have to put this to good use before I have to get rid of it.”

And Art’s heart dropped. The parting of the apartment and its furniture would be the clearest declaration that Paul’s no longer just Paul. He’s… Paul _and_ Mrs Paul. And Mrs Paul’s gonna tell him that all his decisions on interior design were stupid, that all his clothes were unsuitable, and all his jokes were childish. Art’s gonna be alone, laughing by himself in the middle of the dead-cold New York winter, laughing at himself.

“Artie?” Paul tilted his head to the side, his eyes—slightly unfocused from the alcohol—were observing Art sharply—the habit he’d cultivated since a long time ago. He walked closer and placed his hand on Art’s forearm. His hand was so, so warm. Art closed his eyes and let it steeped. Paul spoke softly, near whisper. “I think you need some air.”

Art just nodded and let himself be whisked away. Paul gently led both of them to the balcony and closed the door behind him, leaving snoring Eddie behind in the now-darkened room. Art drew a deep breath. It was true. He did need some air.

Paul leaned forward, towards the railing. Art wasn’t so sure about the safety, but he was too distraught to say anything about tetanus or free-falling towards the streets of New York. Paul’s breathing was quick and melodic, and Art took notice of each note. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to get married,” he said.

_Neither do I._

“I mean, it’s a pretty big step. And the circumstances sound a bit twisted, I know. But they’re both fine with it. So I should be fine with it too, right? I’m fine with it. We’re fine with it. They’re fine. I’ve asked.”

 _So have I,_ thought Art. Because he had. He’d asked times and times again if the divorce was _really_ happening and if there’s really no way it’s gonna work and if there’s anything he could do. And here they were.

“Man, what would _being married_ feel like? What’s that gonna be like? Honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I mean, I don’t think I’m mature enough for this. But she’s gonna know, right? She’d been there. She’d been married.”

Art said, “Yeah.”

“Well, _you_ shouldn’t feel weird about this,” he said, suddenly turning his head towards Art. “I mean, we’re gonna move and all, but _please_ come often. We’re still gonna hang out, right? I know people said that marriage is going to change the dynamics of your friendship and all, but I’ll _always_ make time for you. So don’t feel weird. I’m never gonna feel bothered, any time you feel like showing up.”

Art nodded.

Paul frowned. “Are you okay? You need to lie down? You should get some sleep.”

“I’m okay,” he quickly replied. He noticed that he probably didn’t look like he was. Because he wasn’t. But Paul shouldn’t know that. “I just wish you’re not getting married.”

Paul definitely shouldn’t know _that._

“What?”

He just said that, didn’t he? As if it didn’t mean anything. Very stupid. Very Art. Where’s time machine when you need one?

“You wish I’m not getting married?”

Paul sounded mad. Art quickly shook his head, terrified. He should probably say something because that shaking could either mean no, he wished Paul wasn’t getting married, or no, he didn’t mean he wished Paul wasn’t getting married. He should clear that up. Definitely. Paul _looked_ mad. That’s scary. His eyebrows were scrunched up together, it’s like there’s ripples on his forehead. His eyes were sharp and so, _so_ angry. And Paul had that thing about his lips where they thinned into nearly nothingness when he’s so very angry. Art had had his share of so-very-angry Paul, so he gulped in fear.

Then he kissed Paul.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t planned, like tying passed-out Eddie to the hobby horse was. But here’s Art; bowing his head in an apology, closing his eyes for a beating… then his lips did all the wrong things.

It’s the alcohol, he reasoned. It’s the alcohol that had loosened his lips. It gouged out secrets they were supposed to keep, it pushed them to do what they weren’t supposed to do. They’re tasting Paul’s lower lip and wouldn’t let go—because they’ve been looking for this—this warmth—this mouth—this person.

The world was cold and he was on fire.

He opened his eyes to find Paul’s glaring at him—in anger, in confusion. Art quickly pulled away, his mouth already working on an apology…

Then it hit him. Paul’s fist.

He could feel the cold wall against his back as he staggered away, and a sting on his cheek. There wasn’t blood. It wasn’t a strong punch. But it hurt. It hurt so much, it robbed strength off his legs and he slumped to the floor, shuddering like an autumn leaf.

“Oh my God.”

That’s Paul’s voice. He didn’t sound mad.

“Oh my God.”

This one didn’t sound mad either.

Then he felt Paul’s arms around his neck, pulling him into an embrace, and Paul rocked their bodies back and forth gently, like a mother to a child. “Oh my God, Artie, I’m so sorry,” he said. Art’s confused now. Why was _he_ sorry? Why was he trembling, too? Paul pressed his palm against the back of Art’s head. “I’m so sorry. That was reflex. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Are you okay? Oh my God. Let me get you some ice.”

Art felt cold when Paul let him go; like he was about to freeze to death at the height of summer. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face there, resuming Paul’s gentle rocking. He’s bereft a pair of arms, he thought. He’s bereft of Paul.

“Artie?” Paul opened the door with an icepack in his hand. He looked at Art on the corner of his balcony, curling into a sobbing ball. So he carefully placed his warm hand on one of Art’s folded arm, the other pressed the ice to Art’s cheek when he lifted his face. Then Paul gently pulled him up, and quietly led him towards the bedroom. He took off Art’s shoes and opened the blanket and tucked him in, patting softly on Art’s chest before turning off all the lights, then retired to his own room. If he’s ever very surprised, or had ever thought about confronting the kiss, no one would’ve figured out with that blank face of his.

The world was on fire and Paul was cold.

Art didn’t cry for the rest of the night and he didn’t really sleep until it was nearly morning. Even in his dreams, Paul was still staring at him like that—piercing, confused, angry. The way Paul had always stared at him, but this time it was painful. When he woke up to the sound of Eddie tumbling to the floor with the giant wooden horse, he almost wept in joy for being released from the tormenting dreams.

Paul didn’t say much that morning, too. He was solemn and silent, much like Paul in stormy weather. Eddie moved himself to the room Art had occupied and rewarded his spine a good mattress while Paul and Art shared their insufferable breakfast. Art felt his head was spinning. He blamed it on alcohol. He blamed it on sleeplessness.

He stole a glance at Paul and wondered if he could blame last night on alcohol, too. But Paul’s not stupid and he knew Art. He was there all their lives.

Art opened his mouth and made a sound that the door made when it hadn’t been opened in a long time. “Did it change anything?”

Paul, finally, looked up at him. He was considering what the question was addressing. Did the kiss change Paul’s plan to marry Peggy? Did it change anything? Paul opened his mouth to say, “It changed everything.”

And Art couldn’t object when Paul decided that the time to sing together had come to an end.


	3. Some Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It began like this.

For Art, it started a long time ago.

It was one summer and Paul had climbed up his window with a guitar behind him. He dinged the neck and cursed loudly, and Art’s mother replied with a loud, fabricated cough. Paul yelled, “SORRY, MRS GARFUNKEL!”, then crawled in with a grin. Art was reading a book and he wanted Paul to be quieter, so he shot Paul an annoyed glance, but didn’t say anything. Paul’s grinning. He’s about to do or say something outrageous.

“Artie, you’re going to love me.”

Art sighed and placed his book on his desk with a soft thump. “I bet I am, but do I have to?”

“It’s _paramount_ ,” Paul insisted. He just learned that word—how to use it properly, at least. Art leaned against the desk, waiting, and Paul, enjoying the attention, prolonged the suspense. He sat on the window sill and crossed his legs, and picked some gentle melodies on his guitar. He’s still grinning.

To be honest, Art couldn’t remember what the thing that Paul thought would make Art love him. But he remembered the sound that Paul was making—with his fingers, with his mouth, with the thumping of his shoes—and he felt that the world was compressed into those sounds, into Paul. The chattering of words from the book he just read was silenced and Paul was all there was. His vision was narrowed and the whole world became dark except for the one spotlight that beamed at Paul.

It was the day that Art had a dream that finished every single dream he had with Paul in it; montages of them ending their practices and their performances, and their long walks and talks and fights, and the classes they shared together, and the ballgame practices they idly did in the middle of a vast ocean, and strange adventures with dinosaurs and zombies, with a kiss. Art found tears in his eyes when he woke up. And he was happy. He was so, so happy that he felt so, so confused.

Days and weeks and months and seasons and years went by with more and more confusion, before it peaked and it subsided. Because he sang with someone else and it didn’t feel like magic. And he had a best friend and it didn’t make his heart skip a beat. And he found how intimate touches from unexpected names didn’t give him creep.

If it wasn’t love, at least it was an attraction. He was young. He didn’t know much. But if it wasn’t love at first, it’s concentrating into one; all those little voices, those little touches, those little smiles and secret winks and those gigglish laughter—it’s binding with one another and became a large cluster of a solid emotion.

Art was in love with Paul.

_I know I am, but do I have to?_

He didn’t. But he was. That’s how he knew it was love.


	4. After Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the cigarettes.

Art’s done with the crying now. He didn’t bother with the rest of his tears and let them dry by themselves. His face felt a little sticky. He didn’t mind. He continued with the smoking. The smell covered the smell of the earth and the leaves, but he could still smell Paul’s cologne. He could because he really wanted to.

 _Why are you here? Because I want to be here._ Paul really ignored that. Art wanted to be where Paul was; what’s not obvious from that?

“Did you ever think about that?” Art lifted an eyebrow and turned towards Paul with a surprised look on his face. Paul smirked smugly. “That’s what you want to ask.”

Art wished he could come up with a cheeky reply, but he only smiled weakly. Paul didn’t mind. He turned his face away and returned the cigarette to his lips as he nodded. The stick only had a couple of drags left, at best. “I did, Artie,” he said, answering himself. Was there really ever distinction between them? Art thought they were one. “I thought about that. How I should’ve reacted, how I actually never really knew what that meant—I mean, I never asked, so.” He shrugged. “I thought about that quite often, actually.”

“And what about what you feel about that?” Art snatched the opportunity like a thief. His face reddened in embarrassment, and he felt like he’s a lit-up cigarette himself.

Paul scrutinised him. He lazily twirled the cigarette between his fingers, then took one last drag. He probably wasn’t feeling like answering, Art thought. And Paul said, “It was a good concert, wasn’t it?”, so Art knew he was right.

Art scoffed and shook his head. “It was terrible.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We haven’t sung those songs together in a decade.” If it was an attempt to lift anyone’s spirit, it wasn’t the best, Art thought. “We could make it up with the ones to come,” Paul declared. Then he stood up and dropped the cigarette to the ground, then stomped on it with the edge of the sole of his shoe. Art watched it and still felt very much like a cigarette, but this time it was specific which cigarette he was like.

“Do you have any more of that?”

Art shook his head. He showed his own cigarette. “My last one.”

Paul accepted the offering. There wasn’t much left in it, too, but Art wasn’t going to deny him a humble cigarette. And this time, in turn, Art was the one watching Paul. With the autumnal twilight behind him, Paul looked beautiful when he clamped his lips and opened them again to release. It’s like magic. With Paul, everything was like magic.

He returned the cigarette to Art, who watched the butt with a frown. It came to his mind that this was just so very recently on Paul’s lips, and if he’d shoved it fast enough, it could probably still taste like them. Art did, and felt stupid. He was fine being stupid.

“Did it change anything?” he asked, releasing the last puff of smoke, then dropped and stepped on the dying amber. Paul lifted an eyebrow at him. “The concert. Did it change anything in terms of us? You have any plan to, I don’t know, get together again?”

“The _terrible_ concert?” Paul grinned, and Art replied with a grin, too.

Then, Art’s grin slowly vanished, and the frown on his forehead deepened. Paul’s grinning. That’s a very familiar Paul grin. He’s about to do or say something outrageous.

Then he kissed Art.

The world was on fire and they were burnt.

Paul pulled away slightly and Art could feel him smiling. But he didn’t dare to look. He kept his eyes closed and felt Paul’s breath against his lips, whispering, “It changed everything.”


End file.
